I Don't Know What to Call This
by the-defenestration-of-smaug
Summary: Takes place during book 8, the Kings of Clonmel. One of Will's reconnaissance missions does not go to plan.


Abelard snorted softly, warning Halt that there was a rider approaching. But the little horse was relaxed, a signal to Halt that it was someone Abelard recognized. There was only one person that could be. He reached over and gently woke Horace.

"Will's coming." Halt said to Horace. The young warrior nodded sleepily, sitting up in his bedroll and squinting to try to make out the rider on the dark road. They were camped just inside the tree line on a hill above Dun Kilty, the capital city of Clonmel. They had chosen to spend the night camped outside the city rather than run the risk that Halt would be recognized.

Eventually, Horace managed to pick out an indistinct figure hunched in the saddle of a small, shaggy horse, approaching at a slow walk.

"Not in much of a hurry, is he?" Horace commented. Halt raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. Instead, he added more water to the coffee pot and set it on the fire, anticipating that Will would want some when he arrived.

Will, for his part, had noticed the wood smoke from the campfire a while back and was looking forward to reaching it, but not only for the coffee. He had been riding for a long time, and every sway of Tug's back sent jabs or pain through his bruised (and possibly cracked) ribs and injured shoulder. When he first escaped the Outsider's camp, he had urged the little horse into a gallop, despite the agony it caused. He had paused once, briefly, as soon as he felt he had put enough distance between himself and his enemy, to bandage his wounds and rest. But then he had forced himself to remount and continue riding, albeit at the smoothest walk he could manage. Blood had since soaked through the makeshift bandage that he had tied awkwardly around his left shoulder and stained his shirt, which was torn where a knife had passed through it the previous night.

Tug called a greeting to Abelard as they approached, and a minute later Will reached the camp.

"Hello," Will said, as cheerfully as he could manage. He was unsure if he quite pulled it off, though, and was grateful for the deep clowl of his cloak concealing his failed attempt at a smile.

"Hey, Will," Horace replied. "We just put the coffee on." Will nodded in acknowledgement, most of his attention focused on the task at hand: dismounting. He knew the action woud require movement in almost all of the parts of his body that were currently begging to remain still. But there was no way around it. Resigning himself to the pain it would cause, Will swung his leg over the back of the saddle and down to the ground. Pain shot through his ribs and his vision went dark for a moment, his knees buckling on impact with the ground. He caught himself on the saddle before he fell, but it was enough to alert Horace and Halt that something was wrong.

"Are you all right?" Halt asked, hurrying to Will and putting a hand on his shoulder. He was suprised when Will flinched and jerked away from the contact. "Will?"

"Sorry," Will gasped. Halt had inadvertantly put pressure on his injured shoulder, causing another jolt of pain. "Other shoulder, maybe?" He requested. Halt nodded, taking in the red stain on his former apprentice's cloak, and gently took hold of Will's other arm and put it over his shoulder. He slowly guided Will over to the camp site and helped him sit beside the fire, resting his back againt a log.

Will sighed and closed his eyes, unaware of Halt and Horace exchanging worried glances when the fire light revealed Will's swollen black eye and the crust of dried blood from a cut on his face. He was grateful for the relief from the pain of riding. The thought reminded him of Tug, and he suddenly opened his eyes. He found both Halt and Horace watching him, concern written all over their faces.

"Could someone look after Tug for me?" He asked. Halt nodded and looked pointedly at Horace. The knight reluctantly left his friend to unsaddle and rub down the shaggy horse, then give him some water and grain before turning him loose to graze. Then he quickly returned to the fire.

Horace found Will asleep on Halt's bed roll, with Halt himself sitting near by. He glanced up when Horace approached.

"He fell asleep sitting against that log. I moved him here so he would be more comfortable." Halt said, answering Horace's unspoken question.

"Is he all right?" Horace asked. Halt shrugged.

"I don't know. I really should check him over, but I hate to wake him up." He trailed off, looking at his apprentice.

"There are only a few hours left until morning. Maybe we should just let him sleep until then." Horace suggested.

"All right," Halt agreed. "You go back to sleep, I'll keep watch." Horace nodded his agreement and went back to his bedroll. But he found it difficult to sleep, tossing and turning for a while, worrying about his friend, until he finally drifted off.

The next morning, Will woke up to the thoroughly unpleasant sensation of breathing through cracked ribs. He slowly sat up, groaning as the motion jostled his ribs and shoulder and tugged at his stiff muscles.

"Good morning," Halt said carefully, watching Will sit up.

"Morning," Will said, or tried to say. He found that his throat and mouth were so dry that he couldn't do much more than croak. Horace, who was sitting beside the fire, handed him a canteen full of water, which Will gratefully accepted, using it to rinse the foul taste from his mouth and quench his thirst.

"Thanks," Will said more successfully, and handed the canteen back.

"I need to check over your injuries." Halt said, his tone inviting no argument. "Do you want to eat something first?"

"No. Might as well get it over with." Will said grimly. Halt nodded and went over to where Will sat, bringing his first aid kit with him.

"Take off your shirt." He told him. Will obediently pulled the garment off, grimacing at the painful movement. Horace sucked in a breath when he saw what Will had been hiding. His side was almost one big bruise, and it looked like a few of his ribs might be cracked. There was a rough, blood soaked bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. Halt was more adept at hiding his reaction, but he felt much the same as Horace did.

Halt carefully removed the bandage from Will's shoulder, cleaned the wound, and stitched it shut. Then he put a clean bandage on it. The worst part over, he gave Will a few minutes of respite after the painful stitches.

"So what happened?" Halt asked his former apprentice. Will sighed, wrapping his cloak around himself.

"I traveled with the Outsiders for a while, doing the minstrel act. I learned some useful things before Tennyson took notice of me." Will began. "I suppose he didn't like anyone other than him getting an audience. So he put a ban on any music other than hymns to Alseiass. I figured I could stay for a few more days if I stopped playing music and just blended in with the crowd. But Tennyson was more observant than I gave him credit for, and he noticed that I hadn't left. He sent a couple of his goons to come fetch me to his tent. He told me that he didn't want me playing music. I told him that I'd stopped, but he didn't believe me. He ordered me to hand over my mandola so that he could be sure. I wasn't going to give it to him, and I told him so. He didn't like that at all. I may have also said some rather unkind things about the validity of his religion." Will confessed. "Then I went back to my tent and packed up my things and started to leave. But Tennyson apparently felt that I'd insulted him too much to get away with, so he sent two of his goons after me. They tried to kill me, but I got away. The bastards got my mandola, though." Will finished, scowling.

"Your mandola?" Horace repeated disbelievingly. "That's what you're angry about? Your mandola?"

"Yes! Orman gave it to me after we got back from Macindaw. It was made by Gilet, the best luthier in- ow!" Will cried, glaring at Halt, who had just poked him rather harder than necessary in his bruised ribs. "What was that for?"

"Next time a terrorist and murderer asks you for your damn lute, you give it to him, understand?" Halt growled.

"But it-"

"I don't care if it was handed to you by the Golden God Alseiass himself!" Halt shouted, and Will fell silent. Halt hadn't shouted at him since he was an apprentice. "You could have been killed, Will." Halt said, his voice softening. "No instrument is worth your life."

"I know that," Will said, unwilling to meet Halt's gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be better. And next time, don't get stabbed." Halt said gruffly. "I can't lose you, Will."


End file.
